


what is a king to a god

by MALECANDALEC



Series: introspection and resurrection [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anarchist Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade-centric, Gen, No Beta, Non-Linear Narrative, Sad Dave | Technoblade, Technoblade Backstory (Video Blogging RPF), Unreliable Narrator, heeeeey, so this was longer than i thought it would be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28192806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MALECANDALEC/pseuds/MALECANDALEC
Summary: He is not something that could be named, he only knows one other like him. He never wanted to be here and look where it got him---Or basically Techno getting stuck in a burning building, internally fighting the chat, briefly interacting with dream, stepping on a few dead bodies and swinging from a chandelier over hellfire.yk, the usual day
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: introspection and resurrection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065371
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	what is a king to a god

**Author's Note:**

> heeey so this is longer than i thought it would be. comments and kudos are much appreciated, would love some feedback!  
> im going with the whole techno and dream are *quirky* and sorta immortal, sleep bois inc family dynamic and clearly phil x fridge did SOMETHING to one of the kids so like  
> also techno has some internal conflict lmao have fun

He is trapped in a room, cloak swirling around him in the same patterns as the smoke crowding the building.

His head was spinning, and the voices shouted at him. His head was spinning and the world was crashing around him.

The voices were so loud, overpowering any sounds in the ballroom, the crumbling of marble stairs underneath the weight of heavy hearts and knowing, and the screams that said too much and too little, and the roaring of the flames that seem to lick and bite from every direction.

The voices did not agree, they never agreed (they did, and he knows this, but he prefers not to think about the times where all the voices agree)

_SAVE THEM ALL_

He can’t (doesn’t want to) save them all. Why should he, when he could just save himself?

_KILL THEM ALL_

He can’t (bear to see the looks in his family’s eyes when he returns with a redder cape and ash in his hair, and bloodstains that permanently sink into his skin) kill them all, it would be too much effort

_W A T C H I T B U R N_

He could. He could watch it burn to sparks and dust and remnants. But there would be survivors, he isn’t the only one with sense here, and survivors meant questions.

_FOLLOW IN HIS FOOTSTEPS_

He… could. But it would never be enough, his brothers legacy lives on not as his does, a cautionary tale, but as a sort of roundabout brushed over story, as if the many and the few wanted to forgive and forget and _never forgive._

He cannot do what the voices demand, he rarely gives in, and they know this and he knows this, yet they still forever attempt to wheedle and persuade him to their bloodthirsty, barbaric ways (he gives in more than he thinks, and sometimes he forgets the voices are part of him)

His internal ponderings (b a t t l e, the voices beg for a fight and they get one with him) are interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

A virescent being, behind him. The puppet master himself, the whisper in the wind and the puller of strings. He has come to personally whisper all too tempting offers in his ears.

Offers the voices agree with. This building, this sheltered little bubble of world was going down, so why not make his own mark and play pretend.

He did not stumble, he never falls. He must always be perfect, perfectly barbarian, the most pristine filth and the best solider.

He almost laughs at the expectations placed upon him, how he is praised, how they see the anarchist as a king, the atheist as a _god._

He doesn’t really realise he is walking, long strides in boots that shouldn’t click-clack on the mildly bloody stones that loudly.

He realises what is wrong too late (too late is what a normal, sane person would say, and he is not really ashamed when the voices point out how little he cares)

His heels click loudly because there is no other noise, no sound echoing around the empty, burnt marble and quartz walls. (except for the chartreuse man lying on the floor, his breathing is far too loud for someone pretending to be dead, so he pays it back and pretends not to notice)

Nothing in this room is truly _alive_ (and he ignores it when the voices point out his inclusion in that statement)

Its rather pretty without the crowds that stress him out, he notices.

Some bits of the ballroom have escaped the ordeal relatively unscathed, a few crystalline plants of glass and chisels, and a few marble pillars that are the only support keeping the roof up.

Previously emerald and scarlet curtains lie on the floor, consumed by flames and heat, and in the chaos he almost cannot tell what used to be curtain and what used to be human.

He ascends the stairs, half aware of the flames still blazing behind him.

He is more aware of the start of the fire, and more specifically how it started (with what some would call the masked man’s sidekick, and what he called a hidden, immortal and scarily loyal inferno)

The stone banister was made for those shorter than him, clearly displaying the age of the building. The new monarchs were all ridiculously tall, though he supposed they came up with some reason not to replace this ancient masonry.

As such, he easily swings his legs over the side and leaps to the chandelier in the middle.

The chandelier itself is impressive, silver and bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires, but that isn’t quite what catches his interest.

It is what lies below the gaudy paint and useless jewels that has caught his attention and held it.

For in the flames, the fire and the burning, all other metal in the building has burned. The diamond and iron adornments on the guests clothes are nearly unrecognisable, telling him that this wasn’t just ordinary fire, but hellfire straight from the demons and monsters dimension.

Yet this metal, this black, dull and uninteresting has survived in the hottest part of the room without a scratch.

He can ponder this later, as he swings from the remainder of the silver polish and crystals, letting his boots dance over the flames still climbing up, yet to consume the building.

He knows he is safe here, the metal is repelling the heat and flames, so he swings, letting his cape fly behind him and his slippery, blood coated hands smear on the chandelier.

He knows nearby kingdoms might arrive soon to see what is going on, why the biggest castle is engulfed in fast spreading hellfire, and he is correct (he always is)

He throws his head back and chuckles as he continues to swing, jewels coming loose now and being lost to the blaze.

They crowd around the scene, watching the mans voice carry around the small castle that is steadily becoming more unstable, walls cracking and wood burning.

He continues to swing back and forth, letting them make a spectacle and a case out of him, until the ceiling gives in.

He crashes along with the metal structure, down into the colourful flames that cleanse him.

The crash from the metal on the floor is deafening, but he doesn’t care.

The flames aren’t a bother unless he lets them be, and he internally groans on the questioning he is sure to get after this from the King.

The kings aren’t particularly powerful, or fearsome, but they hold power over his dearest and when he loves, he loves hard.

The kings wear crowns of gold but he wears a crown of humanity, each piece melted down from somewhere special, and maybe he’s gone to wars over that crown.

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t _matter._

_Nothing matters_

after all,

**_What is a king to a god?_ **

**Author's Note:**

> heyo, i hope you enjoyed this. would love feedback, kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> i feel like you can tell my addiction to commas, brackets and pronouns thru this fic lmao  
> ps. this really isnt important to the plot, like at all, but the metal chandelier is made of netherite


End file.
